


Castiel's Wings

by xiavanna



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-21
Updated: 2012-06-21
Packaged: 2017-11-08 05:27:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/439642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xiavanna/pseuds/xiavanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a snippet (headcanon) about Castiel's wings before, and after, his trip to Hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Castiel's Wings

Castiel’s wings had been white, snow white with hints of icy blue, when he still served in heaven. They were glorious, large enough to belong to an archangel, though he only had one pair instead of hundreds like Gabriel, or Michael. 

When he was ordered to save the Righteous Man from Hell, the other angels started giving him pitying looks, and refused to comment on his wings, when any other time they would praise his wings when he came in from whatever mission he’d been on, leading his brothers and sister’s through heaven to return to their garrison. 

He was ordered to keep his wings hidden as it neared the time to leave Heaven for the suicide mission into hell. Uriel couldn’t stand to look at him anymore, and the other angels only gave him solemn good luck wishes before leaving him be to plan. 

With the help of his brothers and sisters, he fought tooth and nail to get into the Pit, smiting demons and monsters in waves. As he went deeper into the Pit, the demons became more ruthless, tearing his wings and burning them to try and put out the glorious, blinding light that surrounded the three remaining Angels.

He cried out as Hellfire drenched his right wing, the chilling laughter of a fallen angel echoing through the hot, dry space they were occupying. He fought on, remembering what he was fighting for, and the Love of a Father that would repair his wings if — when he got back to Heaven. 

By the time he reach Alastair’s rack, he was alone, and the forces of hell swarmed around him as he grasped Dean Winchester’s soul and tucked it tight into his Grace. He gathered his ashen wings around him, shielding Dean from the demons that lunged at them, and with the last ounce of strength, he crouched and pushed up; rocketing towards earth, a trail of light burning down demons and souls in his wake.

Reaching out and gently touching Dean’s soul when they broke the surface, Castiel followed the weak trail to Dean’s body, keeping the soul in the protective aura of his Grace while he worked on recreating a body for Dean to inhabit. He knew it was going to take a long time, and maybe he’d be too weak to finish the job, but he worked without pause or error, for weeks, until the final product was laid out in the makeshift coffin Sam and Bobby had put together when they buried their brother and son. 

Dean’s body was perfect, not a scar on his skin, or a incorrectly healed bone anywhere in sight. The body was healthy, and more than ready for Dean’s soul. With utter reverence, Castiel gathered up the soul and gently pressed it into the body, unprepared for the toe-curling scream that left it. 

Dean screamed, and screamed, until his throat was hoarse and his hands were bloody from his thrashing. Castiel placed a hand on his shoulder to calm him, his grace wrapping around Dean and comforting him, slowly pulling back when he had calmed enough to sleep. It would take a while for the body and soul to reconnect enough for Dean to crawl out of his own grave, long enough for Castiel to return to Heaven and get healed himself. 

So, with a last touch to Dean’s shoulder, Castiel flew off, never noticing the burnt print of a hand curled around the man’s body, caused by his Grace and tying them together for eternity. 

When he returned to Heaven, there was celebration; the Righteous Man had been saved. And then, the other Angel’s saw his broken, bloody and blackened wings and silence rang throughout the host down to the lowest choir. They smelt fire, brimstone and ash, and looked upon Castiel with a great pity. 

“Black is the colour of the Fallen,” they told him, with wary looks and scathing words behind his back. They ushered him to Raphael, hoping their brother would be able to heal Castiel of the taint he now carried.

Raphael looked upon him with sadness, at first, cleaning the feathers with gentle strokes of Grace on Grace. Then Sadness turned to loathing and mistrust, and when Pamela’s voice called through the veil between Heaven and Earth, Raphael gripped Castiel and flung him down to Earth, disgust written on the Archangel’s face. 

He went to Dean, found him just a few miles away from his grave, and tried to talk to him. His voice echoed across several planes of existence, but he found that the human couldn’t understand him. So he located one his brothers and asked what to do. That lead him to a devout man by the name of Jimmy Novak, a suitable man to become his vessel.

Jimmy called it his destiny, but really it was just convenience. He was locked inside his own body while Castiel wore it like a suit and returned to Dean, explaining what he was, who he was, and what he had done for the human. 

When Dean still didn’t believe him, Castiel hesitated. The next course of action was to show his wings, but they were still mangled and black from Hell. He was ashamed; of what he lost by saving this arrogant, righteous man; and ashamed that he didn’t really feel saddened by the colour of his wings. 

With a sudden burst of resolve, his wings flared out behind his vessel, shadows in the darkness of the barn. He was Castiel, Angel of Thursday and a soldier of Heaven. He had nothing to be ashamed of. 

It was years later, in a small hotel room between here and nowhere, when drunk and faced with the inquisitive gaze of Sam Winchester that he shared his story, how the feathers burned and his wing joints popped under the strain of demons clawing at his Grace. 

It was Sam’s fingers that smoothed out the blackened feathers when faced with them, the large, impressive wingspan that had been crippled by fire and talons still filling the room they were in. Sam’s words that whispered the praise he hadn’t heard since he was just an angel in a garrison in Heaven. 

And suddenly, he no longer cared that his wings were the colour of the fallen, or that the disgust of his brother’s and sisters had been the last thing he’d seen of his home. He had the love of a beautiful soul, and the friendship of another, and he needed nothing else to be happy.


End file.
